The Visitor
by Rianne
Summary: Two stories based on the same idea... Grissom makes a house call!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Grissom and Sara belong with one another, but not to me.

**Author Notes:** Too many words in my head, so little time... This is a strange fiction – I had one idea and could not decide which way I should work it. I started the first one – and then I decided to write it another way, and try and combine parts of the two – but that didn't work... so basically I decided that you get to see both. The Visitor Mark One and Mark Two if you like! So both chapters are unrelated, but the second is M! x

**The Visitor**

_By Rianne_

Should he have knocked first?

The turning of the key in her lock was loud.

Intrusive.

As good as knocking.

And as uncomfortable to him as the weight of her unfamiliar key had been against his thigh on the journey over.

But both a mere drop in the ocean when compared to his unprecedented and wholly unexpected reaction to the calm way she had passed him the spare key from her locker and told him to just drop the file off when he was finished with it.

He hadn't liked it.

This blasé Sara wasn't normal.

This wasn't their usual pattern of interaction.

When she had passed him that key he could have sworn he felt them tilt on their already precarious axis.

That key meant more than words.

It meant don't disturb me.

It meant I won't be there?

It meant I don't wish to even spend a few moments speaking with you, or even opening my door?

It meant more than just put the file in my mailbox...?

At least?

Didn't it?

It certainly posed questions.

They had survived tremors before, countless times.

The most recent, incident, as he liked to term them occurring when she had finally trapped him long enough to challenge him about choosing Nick as his recommendation for the Key CSI position, and had not really understood his badly explained reasoning.

In the aftermath he had replayed the moment over and over, the perfect words he should have said filling his head in the clarity of after. The ache in his stomach keen as he recalled the way she let the measuring tape career back, recoiling across the garage floor, severing the physical connection between them, but tightening the tension a million fold.

The emptiness in her eyes had been something else.

Yet, despite everything she had still been there, still just as important as ever.

Still far kinder to him than she should be.

And not as kind to herself he was horrified to discover late one night when a phone call had tightened his chest with more worry and fear than he had felt for anyone for a long time.

She had let him hold her hand in a moment of broken disgrace.

And she had allowed him to help her up and guide her safely to the doorway of her home.

There had been no invite inside and he had expected none.

And since that night time had passed calmly until a misguided confrontation on his part to try and understand her unfathomably angry behaviour had forced painful secrets to revelation.

Time and risk had been spent to try and repair.

His unwittingly caused damage.

The blemishes to her career and professional reputation.

And to try and fix them.

He had hoped to call her 'friend' again.

Secretly, more than friend.

But she had passed him that key as if it meant nothing, as if he had free access to her home on a regular basis, or had even been invited there before.

Her expression had been blank. No smile. No meaning or invitation in her eyes.

She hadn't even bothered to remind him of the address, or suggest a good time.

Not that he didn't have the address memorised, and in fact he could, if he closed his eyes, also recall the layout and curious unusual decor within with such vivid intensity he could have been standing there, even though he had only been there once.

Bad circumstances, painful words, heartbreaking secrets, tears. He had held her hand then too.

Places of emotional trauma had always ingrained themselves indelibly on his memory.

He could draw you an etching of the living room in which he found his father, aged nine.

No one had held his hand then.

But it wasn't just her lack of reaction, lack of embarrassment or even the way that she seemed completely unaware that she was committing a gesture which was usually loaded with sexual insinuation.

Instead it was his own response that had left him infinitely more dumbfounded and awkward.

This afternoon he had stood, with all of his forty-something years behind him and blushed like a five year old school girl, heat radiating from the furls of his ears, unable to say anything, whilst Sara in turn had simply straightened, adjusting her bag on her left shoulder and walked away unruffled.

When had things changed?

He didn't like it.

Had he done something wrong?

Again?

This new Sara, he didn't know her.

And that sat uneasy.

He had grown accustomed to the way she blushed when he smiled at her, praised her, flirted mildly with her whilst keeping her at bay.

It had boosted his flagging ego, warmed his lonely heart.

Even tempted him on occasion to move closer to her, before his head and conscience had taken over.

Kept a careful limit on control.

But when had they traded places?

It was extremely unsettling.

And even more painful questions had begun to plague.

Did he not mean as much to her anymore?

Did she not need him as much anymore?

Had she emotionally grown away from him?

Had she given up?

Was it too late?

Was there someone else?

Someone younger, who was openly affectionate with ease? Whose shorter lifespan held no baggage?

He had weighted the small coppery key in his palm, thoughtful as ever.

Ruminating in the still air of the empty locker room.

Then slid it safe into the pocket of his jeans.

Until now, when it had fit with perfect ease into her front door, allowing him unannounced entry into the dark room within.

It was a real key at least.

And the contrast between the bright outdoors and the dusky interior took him a few moments to acclimatise.

The file in his hand, tapping in distracted rhythm against his thigh.

She hadn't left any lights on, the room was shadowy and still.

It smelt faintly of calming sandalwood.

He hovered by the front door.

Ears practically twitching, listening for any sound which might threaten the silence, and reveal occupation.

Maybe she wasn't home after all, and yet that also played on his mind.

If she wasn't here, where was she?

There was a small dark wood table by the door, the perfect place for the file.

Unobtrusive, in a clear space so that it's delivery would be noticed.

He wouldn't have intruded far into her space to bring it.

Yet, where was she?

He had honestly expected her to be here.

If he was even more honest, he had wanted her to be here.

She could be anywhere, out grocery shopping; did she still take long runs?

He had envisioned entering to find her curled with book on her strangely shaded sofa, steam wafting from her tabled mug of tea, or fingers flying over her laptop keyboard, writing a diary, or maybe a novel, or even just a crime scene report.

But no such ghostly apparition Sara materialised into reality.

Yet her bedroom door drew his gaze.

Open ajar.

The one space in her apartment his eidetic mind had not had chance to photograph.

Her truly private space.

He was tempted.

He wavered.

He wanted to see.

To have a place to recall as he worried away time concerned about how much rest she got, or if she was looking after herself more as she had cautiously promised him she would. Brows creased in a faint frown, words most likely to placate him in this rare and awkward display of compassion for her.

The door was partially open after all.

She would never know.

Never find out that he was just looking, it wasn't like he planned to touch anything.

He wasn't a perverse man.

Just an inherently curious one.

The floor didn't creak as he crossed it.

Finding himself by her bedroom doorframe before he knew what his feet were doing.

And in he peered, the sight before him making his heart clench in surprise.

The room before him was not empty.

Sara.

In bed.

Stretched out across the white bedcovers.

His mouth was open, he only realised when he forced himself to swallow.

She was simply beautiful.

Sprawled out on her stomach, her face turned towards the door.

The covers tangled about her waist.

She was sleeping nude.

The outer curve of her breast on show, half concealed by the way she lay and the outreach of her arm.

He knew, somewhere distant in what once was his brain, that he should look away, but he couldn't.

Too many thoughts were fighting for his attention.

Had she forgotten that he would be stopping by?

Did she think he wouldn't remember her request?

Did she always sleep this way?

Had she wanted him to see her like this?

To see her differently?

As a woman and not just a student, a CSI, a colleague?

Had she always been this gorgeous?

Yes.

His brain had always known that, but these images of her tangled up in her bed sheets like a sleeping angel were never going to leave him.

He was licking his lips now, his fingers flexing at his sides.

Imagining touching her, imagining fleeing the scene before he got caught.

He closed his eyes, trying to trap the image behind his eyelids forever.

"Griss?"

His heart nearly stopped.

His eyes flying open.

A lump in his throat.

She was looking up at him dazed, sheets clutched to her chest, a single curl tumbling down her forehead.

And mouth opening and closing like a fish he merely dug his hole deeper.

And fled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I've been watching too much of series 6...

**Author Notes:** Okay – this is Version Two! M for a range of Good/Bad thoughts from Grissom.

**The Visitor.**

_By Rianne._

There was only one sure moment that stayed with him.

Literally quivering on the edge of every thought he had since.

It had happened.

It had not been arranged, planned out, or even remotely thought through like the other ninety-nine percent of his everyday life.

It had been pure instinct in every sense of the word.

Recent events had changed all of them and no one would ever have blamed them for the ways that they had subsequently altered their simple, quiet existences.

Therapists would suggest rationalisations; post traumatic analytical data, the natural instinct to unite as a species when threatened.

However you looked at it, things had changed, outlooks had altered and long held fears and longings were viewed in new light, and the previous tremors hidden by the dark made silly by comparison.

No one could have predicted that three unanswered phone calls would have been the breaking point.

There had been a friendly suggestion of breakfast after shift, and so he had called.

Called her number with a faint smile on his face and a new sensation of anticipation warming him.

To no avail.

The sound of her voice, quirky and light on the recorded message drew only a frown the first time.

The second time his heart began to pound, his throat tightening.

Where was she?

He left it a few long stretching minutes before he gave into the twitching of his fingertips.

And there was her voice again, too light, too breezy, too false, echoing in his ears.

Sara Sidle slept with her phone, lived out her days with it on her hip, had an extra battery pack on hand just in case.

He saw green.

The sharp ingrained image of Nick illuminated with green, screaming with fear, submerged with bugs and soil and terror.

It was happening again.

And panic had him out of his door and in the car before he had tied his shoe laces.

She had been fine, perfectly fine.

Opening the door he was violently pounding on so quickly he stumbled over the threshold.

Her wide eyes taking in his wider eyes, his flushed face and rapid breathing.

Her questions unheard by him, as he focused only on her stunned and concerned expression of surprise.

He had just swayed on the spot looking at her.

Her hair was wet, dripping down the collar of the t-shirt she had dragged over still wet skin.

The soft blue fabric clung to her stomach, was darker over her shoulders.

Her nipples were peaked, her rapid breathing dragging the cloth tight across her breasts, drew his attention and he tore it away again.

Unsure if he should feel joyous about the reduced space in his jeans, or ashamed at his manic behaviour.

He looked down.

Down at her bare feet, her shorts old and frayed at the edge.

Clothes dragged on in a hurry to answer the door.

She had been in the shower.

A normal, steady, daily activity, yet nothing felt normal anymore.

Swinging limp from her hand was her service weapon.

He had scared her.

And guilt and fear were a potent mix of emotions, and restraining them left little energy to control all the other feelings that stirred inside of him.

It probably happened slowly, but to him everything was still racing too fast for him to think rationally.

As she had reached past him to close the door and place her gun out of reach he had been able to smell her, had breathed in the faint wave of her scent, a sharp grapefruit shower gel tang.

Then his eyes had slammed closed at the sensation of the soft curve of her breast, brushing accidentally against the hair on his forearm.

He had been able to feel her taut nipple through the warm fabric, had felt her breath catch at her own echoing sensation, and the fight had finally become too much for any man to withstand.

He had longed for too much time.

Had wanted her, been stirred by her and needed her for so long he couldn't even quantify.

One palm reached out blindly for her, landing on her arm, stroking all the way down to her delicate wrist as she moved back towards him, his touch drinking in the softness of skin against skin.

Drawing breath as she did, he could not stop the intimate movements of his hands, even when her face rose to his, her eyes huge and vulnerable, wondering why and what and everything.

Yet she didn't stop him.

His exploring fingertips drifted up and captured her cheeks, the both of them breathing so hard.

Her dazed hands finding purchase against his straining chest.

His thumb stroked once over her open lips, the moisture of her breath beading on his fingerprint.

Their gaze never faltering.

Then he had kissed her.

Thrilled to find her alive and vital and responsive.

Hunger repressed for so long, a need so intense and passionate and fast that their actions were rapid and rough.

He had lifted her against the door, amazed at his own strength and need, surprised to feel her legs winding around him, arching his body into hers without holding back, letting her feel what he wanted, knowing that when it came to her words were always going to fail him.

And she had cried out against his lips, squirming as his touch had moved under her shirt, dragging it over her head, baring more of her beautiful skin to his devouring mouth.

Her groan of pleasure as he sucked her breast had made him growl against her skin.

She had pushed on his shoulders and they had stumbled further into her apartment.

They had been bare before he had reached her bedroom and gasping as they hit her already slept in sheets.

Together.

With nothing standing between them any longer.

And motion had replaced thought.

The slick strokes intimate and unsteady.

Unpractised and unfamiliar but rapidly becoming so.

Moving in a heady blur.

And then came the moment that he would remember every time he looked at her.

The feel of her all around him, beautiful, aching and lost, murmuring frantically into his ear, as her limbs began to tremble.

And he had told her.

Unable to hold back anything.

Three small words.

Whispered into her ear as the wave had thundered over her and her quivering body had tightened around him, leaving them both breathless and stunned.

That one moment.

Sara more vulnerable than he would ever have imagined.

All for him.

The next time he awoke there had been a calm quietude.

The faint sound and scent of her coffee machine kicking on in automatic mode.

The soft rise and fall of the pretty chocolate curl which lay across her sleep flushed cheek.

And the smile in her eyes.

They had eventually had their breakfast.

Shy and sweet.

An air of disbelief about their interaction.

Not a word was mentioned about the three small words of adoration which had escaped through his cracking battle armour.

And that night things at work had gone on unchanged as she had always tried valiantly to promise that they would.

It was no different, which seemed strange now that he knew what she looked like in moments he could before have only poorly imagined.

The only question he had left was 'what now?'

It felt almost foolish to ask her on a date. Especially when they could not be seen out like that in public.

So he hovered in limbo waiting for a clue.

After two days of emotion-filled looks thrown across Labs and crime scenes she had finally seemed to carry on as if the morning at her place had never happened.

Until he had come across her late one night in the locker room.

She had passed him a file, asking for a signature, but there had been something in her smile, and under further investigation, something heavier in the file.

A key.

The turning of the lock had been loud.

The dark apartment warm and quiet.

And the main room seemingly empty.

Yet she had invited him and the door to her bedroom stood ajar.

He slipped out of his shoes by the door.

A smile on his face but his fingers curled uncertain into the pockets of his trousers.

When he reached the threshold he could see her.

The elegant pale line of her bare back visible in the moonlight.

A wonderful sensual contrast against the dark bedcovers which had slipped during her slumber to only drape over her lower body.

Her hair loose in caressable tumbling curls.

He leant against the doorframe enchanted.

Content to simply watch her breathe.

His mind filled with the memories of lying in that bed with her.

But it seemed that more memories would be made tonight, as she felt his presence and began to stir.

Her body gliding over in the sea of soft sheets as she turned to face him, sleepy, shy smile in vivid contrast with the gorgeous glow of her bare breasts as she sensually let the sheet fall to her waist in open invitation.

More comfortable with her body than her emotions, and it did not surprise him.

"Hi..."


End file.
